


The Curious Case of the Watch That Ran Too Fast

by WinryWeiss



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Heavily Implied Relationship, M/M, Raffles Secret Santa, case fic of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/pseuds/WinryWeiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a night for felony.<br/>Not to mention a watch that ran too fast, a burglary that went <i>terribly</i>  wrong, and certain unexpected acquaintances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Case of the Watch That Ran Too Fast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quite-Exploded](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Quite-Exploded).



> A belated gift in Raffles Secret Santa exchange for [Quite-Exploded](http://quite-exploded.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  
> 
> With many thanks and even more words of gratitude to [HardBoiledBaby](http://hardboiledbaby.livejournal.com/), for her help, advices and support. Any remaining mistakes are utterly my responsibility.

It was a magnificent night.

A silent night in late summer with the tiresome heat already absent and the chill of autumn not yet present. Fogless, as much a night in London can be. The blue velvet of sky bejewelled by the diamond-like shine of myriads of stars. 

A night for felony.

Therefore, it should not be surprising that such a night found both Raffles and I in a house which didn’t belong to either of us.

It was the luxurious dwelling of one Roger Silk, a carefree man-about-town whom Raffles knew from his club.

In contrast to his name, Mr. Silk was a small and plump, not the lean and lanky gentleman one might imagine. He wore glasses and a fake smile all the time, pretending to be an expert in many fields while in reality all he ever did was spend his rapidly dwindling family fortune.

Needless to say, he was not a man with whom I would willingly spend my time. To my surprise, even Raffles seemed to feel strong antipathy towards him. And that was something peculiar, as my friend’s easy-going personality allowed him to overlook many faults of many men.

I happened to be in the club when Silk was boasting about his planned trip to the Continent, loudly enough to be heard even in the neighbouring room where I and Raffles sat with brandy and cigars. My friend rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the unpleasantly high-pitched voice in favour of our backgammon game. 

Unfortunately, as Silk’s primary target Raffles was not allowed such luxury. Suddenly, Silk burst pompously into the room and dragged my friend into a debate about sport.

Raffles let him talk and politely nodded for nearly four minutes, all the while discreetly sending desperate glances in my direction. 

I could not allow my friend to suffer such a horrible fate for long, so I came to his rescue and extracted us both with a fabricated meeting we would be late for, unless we departed immediately. 

Silk looked at his timepiece upon hearing that and clicked his tongue in disapproval, sighing that he really should have it repaired for it was gaining terribly. Said watch was a very luxurious thing. Yet, to be honest, I’d call it hideously garish – a heavy gold pocket watch adorned with tiny crystals. 

Those crystals reflected the light and caused Raffles’ eyes to sparkle.

I doubt that anybody noticed how his breath caught in his throat, he mastered his expression immediately. Only I knew him well enough to perceive.

 _I knew_. I didn’t even have to look at Raffles for confirmation.

Cricket season was nearing its end – and that means it was high time for crime.

* * *

I have many times offered to give up my employment, but Raffles insisted that I keep it. ‘The more public your occupation is, the less suspicious you are’ is his favourite saying.

Over the course of our acquaintance I came to understand how true this was.

Therefore, as I was rather preoccupied by my official job and my bothersome superior, Raffles was left to make the plan on his own. Not that he complained about it, after all it was not much different from our usual method of operation. The only exception was that I was not available for him to consult with me on his various ideas, their probabilities of success, and my ability – or rather my inability – to carry them out.

He made the preparations in record time, thoughtfully sparing me from the ordeal of a social visit to Mr. Silk for the sole purpose of getting acquainted with the layout of the house.

Thus, the very night after Silk’s departure we proceeded to the actual thievery.

I was bringing up the rear, carrying the tools and dark lantern as usual. Raffles lead me across a spacious garden and then through a French window into a poshly furnished study. 

He immediately directed all of his attention to a built-in safe, hidden behind a painting of some naval battle. 

I set our carpetbag, rather heavy with various tools, next to him and placed the lantern on a writing desk with the intention of riffling through the books in the library. I have to admit that this is my favourite pastime while Raffles plays with the safe, until he actually needs me.

That’s when I noticed the watch.

The watch lay in the middle of the massive mahogany writing desk, its decorative crystals gleaming dimly in the reflected light of the dark-lantern.

Curious – I would have sworn that the basta– that is to say, a person such as Silk would never leave behind his valuables. I took it and without thinking withdrew my own timepiece to adjust it, but ...

It was perfectly on time.

I stared from my own watch to that hideous mockery of clockwork.

How could that be?

I knew for a fact that Silk’s watch was supposed to be at least 20 minutes ahead, from the conversation at the club. 

“A.J.?” I whispered even though there was no reason for that, the house was deserted.

“Not yet, Bunny.” He did not bother to whisper.

“Say, did Mr. Silk stop at the watchmaker’s?”

“Not to my knowledge. Now shush, I need to concentrate.”

I stared at the timepiece in my hand and then slowly set it down, arranging it exactly as it had been.

“We have to disappear,” I hissed at Raffles, tugging at his hand.

“What?” He now adopted the same level of voice as I. “Bunny, what in –”

“Somebody’s here.”

He stiffened and before he could ask for explanation I gave him one. “That awful watch on the desk is on time. It must’ve just been rewound.”

“That’s not proof –” He was interrupted by the slamming of an upstairs door.

At that sound, ice flowed through my vein and heat crept up my spine. I believe my heart might have stopped working as well.

We looked at each other, I on the verge of panic, Raffles already working on our escape plan.

We heard footsteps drawing closer.

“ _A–_ ”

“ _Quick!_ ” 

He turned back to the safe and started snatching the tools haphazardly. I grabbed the carpetbag and held it up to him as he stuffed everything back into it forcibly. Then I darted towards the writing desk to grab our black-lantern which still stood there incriminatingly while he crossed the room with a few long strides and threw the carpetbag out of the window. He raised his hand up to me wordlessly. 

The steps drew even closer.

I closed the shutter and enveloped us in complete darkness at the same time as I heard Raffles’ curse – an expression a gentleman should most definitely not know – and suddenly he was next to me, dragging me behind an ornate Chinese screen with his hand over my mouth.

The door to the study opened and somebody walked in. He headed directly to the desk and lit the lamp there, seating himself with a sigh.

That voice... 

Raffles stiffened and clutched me tighter.

I gripped the black-lantern with such force that my fingers went numb as I raised my head to look my friend in the eyes. He held my gaze, his own calm and comforting as ever.

“All will be well, Bun,” he mouthed soundlessly.

I nodded, completely trusting him. 

Our mysterious man started to hum to himself softly, rustling through some papers. I couldn't see anything through the lacquered wood, but I would have recognised that unpleasant voice of his anywhere.

 _Roger Silk._

Raffles turned his head, as astonished as I by Silk’s presence. 

“I know you are there.” Silk said all of a sudden.

I am not, by any means, a particularly brave man. Nevertheless, I fancy that I’m not easily frightened. Once, I had to watch as Raffles fell from our school dormitory window when his makeshift rope snapped, nearly breaking his neck. Another time, MacKenzie burst unexpectedly into the Albany flat, forcing me to hide in the wardrobe dressed only in Arthur's shirtsleeves. Being the partner in crime of a certain Arthur J. Raffles most definitely requires me to be a man of strong nerves.

And yet, Silk’s statement nearly made me faint.

I have never, _ever_ , felt so terrified.

My knees suddenly turned very unsteady underneath me and I did not collapse only due to Arthur’s embrace.

He clutched me tighter, looking worriedly at me.

“And here I thought,” answered a nasal voice from the corridor, “that I would catch you by surprise by coming half an hour early.”

I went limp with relief. 

I sensed the tension leaving Raffles’ body as he exhaled shakily, shooting me a small smile.

“Hehe,” chuckled Silk, “You’d have to try harder.”

The other man snorted. “All’s clear?”

“Quite so. Everyone thinks that I went to the Continent.”

“Good. I shall return from my business trip to Manchester during this next week. That will give us plenty of time to disappear for good.”

“And to become rich men.”

“Awfully rich men, Roger. It’s worth nearly ten thousand pounds.”

Silk whistled. “Lovely.”

“Yeah.” 

“But –” Silk clicked his tongue. “You know, I realised that I don’t want to share.”

I will never forget that sound. There is no worse sound than the sound of a murder – the sound of a knife entering a human body and slicing its way through, the surprised and then distressed cries, the last struggling whimpers of the suffering victim. 

I clung to Arthur, shuddering and barely suppressing cries of absolute terror, allowing tears of despair to run freely down my cheeks, my eyes tightly shut. He was gripping me in an almost painful embrace, one of his hands woven in my hair and pressing my face down to his chest.

Our own lives depended on our silence. 

The feeble moans of that poor dying soul faded away gradually. The only sound in the room was Silk’s ragged breathing. Then the knife clattered on the ground and he started to laugh maniacally.

Far too soon he calmed down with a small chuckle and left the room, humming to himself softly.

After an eternity Raffles dragged me from behind the screen towards the still open window. But I stopped at the sight of the corpse, absolutely immobile and still unable to comprehend the monstrosity of this whole situation. My friend cursed underneath his breath and took my hand to lead me away.

That very moment our luck fled us. 

Silk returned. 

We stared at each other, all three of us absolutely aghast.

It would have made quite a bizarre sight, had anybody witnessed it – two burglars in evening dress and with black silk masks concealing their faces, standing across from a respectable citizen in blood-stained clothing who carried an armful of expensive Persian carpet in which he no doubt wanted to get rid of the corpse.

A flicker of recognition lightened Silk’s eyes. “You’re –”

In one fluid motion, very similar to his trademark short pitch, Raffles grabbed a heavy leather-bound volume from the writing desk and hurled it at Silk, whilst seizing my hand and tugging on it. My body obeyed his lead instinctively as we rushed out of the house.

I have nearly no recollection of that haphazard mad dash through London’s darkened streets. I was only vaguely aware of my own frenzied heartbeat and ragged breath and a sickening nausea that threatened to overwhelm me and Silk’s angry shouts behind us. 

And that Arthur’s hand never eased its grip on mine.

When we finally collapsed in the relative safety of one of our many shabby hideouts, completely out of breath, I was shaking violently, and not solely due to the exertion of our escape.

Arthur dragged me into his embrace, still sitting on the hard floor with his back propped against the flat door.

We sat like this long after the daybreak came.

* * *

Raffles smoked Sullivan after Sullivan as he paced nervously through the overstuffed room. It was a small wonder he didn’t trip over any of the many crates or discarded pieces of clothing. I sat silently on the uncomfortable settee with my legs up and out of his way, downheartedly fumbling with my own cigarette case.

“Arthur, we must –”

“ _WHAT_?!”

I shuddered and huddled down. He truly has a masterful voice.

“Oh, Bunny,” he sighed and kneeled in front of me, prodding me gently to look at him. “Forgive me, my dear. I did not mean to yell at you.”

I gripped at his hands. “Arthur ...”

He pressed our foreheads together. “I know. I know, my dearest Bunny. And we will not let it be.”

“But how? We could hardly report that to Scotland Yard. What would we tell them? That we witnessed a murder while burgling a house?”

“Well, MacKenzie would certainly appreciate that.”

I chortled, despite myself.

Raffles smiled fondly at me. “Good. That’s better.”

“So, what will we do?”

Raffles flopped down next to me heavily, stubbing his cigarette. “Perhaps...” He hesitated and for a few endless minutes we sat there in absolute silence. Then he frowned resignedly. “I have a plan.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Erm ... my ... friend from University might be able to help us.” He was fidgety. 

I have never seen Raffles fidgety.

“Arthur –”

“But,” he looked at me, seemingly calm and composed as ever, even as I realised that it was just a mask he put on to calm me down, “I need you to leave London for few days.”

* * *

Of course I protested. So vehemently that it surprised not only Raffles, but me as well. But it was futile. 

I never deny Arthur anything.

In the end I succumbed to his unending persuasions and agreed to leave for the countryside for a few days. I did not bother to make a cover story for my travels. Or a plan, for that matter. I merely bought a ticket for the first morning train, to travel as far as I could in one day. 

So I stuttered something about holidaying in the country after my compartment companion asked out of politeness. He nodded understandingly and thankfully did not inquire further, merely concentrating on his own yellow-backed novel. 

He was quite average in appearance – broad-shouldered, fair-haired with a neatly trimmed moustache, and dressed in a plain brown suit – except for the wise twinkle in his hazel eyes. He boarded the train mere seconds before its departure, carrying only a Gladstone bag and a walking stick.

And yet, there was a familiar air about him. A person you are sure you know, but cannot, even if your own life depended on it, remember from where.

“Your tickets, please.” The train guard sounded exactly as I felt. Dead tired and without any trace of cheerfulness.

Heavens, where did I put that confounded thing?

I frisked myself, sensing the ice-cold clutches of panic gnawing at my mind while sending nervous smiles at the sleepy train guard.

“Perhaps in your notebook?” My travelling companion suggested.

True enough, it was there.

After the train guard left, my co-traveller struck up a conversation. “Pray, forgive my inquisitiveness, but are you a writer?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m a mere journalist.”

“Is that so?” There was genuine interest and warmth in his eyes. “And to what paper are you submitting, if I may ask?”

“Ah, I’m a freelance journalist. Mostly sport reports and crime news.”

“Crime and cricket, eh?”

Despite all my fears, I could not help but chuckle. “Quite so.”

* * *

_The Crown and the Rose_ was a pleasant, well kept inn. It was an old establishment suitably located on the outskirts of town, with staff more than accustomed to wandering visitors, hence no one asked unnecessary questions there.

Rather than roaming around my room like a caged lion, I decided that it was better if I ventured out. After all, I was supposed to be on holiday. Well, that was what I told anyone who actually asked me. The least I could do was to pretend to be enjoying myself.

And perhaps the walk might get my mind off of what happened, what _might be happening_ , to Arthur. 

Arthur ...

A sickening fear gripped at my heart and I was suddenly in acute need of some fresh air. I stumbled to the door and stormed into the corridor without caution. And I rammed full force into another lodger. The unexpected impact sent me backwards to the ground and he staggered with a surprised huff, able to keep his balance only thanks to his walking cane.

To my great surprise he turned out to be my travelling companion from before.

He laughed at my dumbstruck face and offered me his hand to help me up.

“My, that was one of the roughest greetings I’ve ever received.”

“I...I’m...I’m terribly sorry,” I stuttered in apology.

He grinned at me, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes telling me he actually didn’t mind in the slightest. “Think nothing of it.” He waved my further apologies off with his hand. “But just to be sure ... Shall I announce myself every time I walk past your door?”

* * *

“Third time is the charm, don’t you think?” He said after a peal of laughter.

My train companion, who was booked into the room next to mine, just walked out of the stationery shop into which I was heading, nearly colliding into me in the door. 

I blinked at him in surprise.

Still chuckling, he outstretched his hand towards me. “It would be quite rude not to introduce ourselves when we keep bumping into each other.”

“Harry Man...nings.” I remembered Arthur’s warning to travel incognito at the last moment.

“William Boswell.”

* * *

As it happened, Mr. Boswell and I started to accompany each other. And we tended to drift into small talk about literature and writing rather often. 

I was really thankful for his somewhat soothing presence. It helped to disengage my mind from horrible visions of what might have happened to Arthur so far.

He had not sent me any messages up to now.

Blast it all! If I did not receive a word from him within the next three days, I was going back to London, and that mysterious plan of his could go to blazes!

“Are you a writer yourself, Mr. Boswell?” I asked him, desperate to shut off my overwrought imagination.

He was scribbling into his own small notepad again while waiting for me to join him for dinner. “Oh no, not exactly.” He smiled at me and hid his notepad. “Actually, I’m a doctor by profession. Writing is just my favourite pastime.”

“I see.”

He favoured me with that amiable inquisitive look of his. “And you, Mr. Mannings? Only newspaper articles?”

“Well... I’ve written a few short stories, but I would never dare to publish them.” Not that I would not want to see my own creations in print, but ... it would require a careful censorship, as I do not feel the need to hide absolutely anything in my personal journals, so they are rather _incriminating_. In more than just one kind of crime.

“Not even through a literary agent?”

“Do you know a decent one? I most certainly do not. Those I had the ill fortune of working with are egotistic big-heads,” I muttered under my breath before I could stop myself. 

“Doyle is not that bad.”

“Doy– THAT Doyle? The one who publishes Dr. Watson’s stories?”

“Erm, yes.” Mr. Boswell turned an interesting shade of red.

“You know that man in person?”

For a while I was afraid that Mr. Boswell would faint on me. “Mr. Doyle?” he managed finally, fumbling with his walking stick nervously, eyes glued to the ground. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him.”

“Upon my word... that’s amazing.”

“Y–You think so?”

“Yes. I love those stories.” 

Truly, I do. Not long ago I discovered a complete collection of Dr. Watson’s stories – carefully extracted from ‘The Strand’ – hidden in Arthur’s writing desk. Had I not known my friend so well, I’d suspect him to be a smitten fan. But he rebuffed my teasing with the explanation that one must know his competitors well. 

Yet, every time I read those stories, I prayed to every deity who would be willing to listen to a criminal that we would never, ever, under any circumstances, cross paths with the Great Detective.

* * *

I twirled my notebook nervously in my hands as I left the local post office.

Arthur didn’t forbid me sending a telegram to him. In fact, he didn’t say anything about it. I was well aware that he wouldn’t exactly be thrilled about those several, more and more anxious, messages from me. But he simply should have replied to the first.

It was such a wonderful morning. As if nature itself decided to mock me.

Perhaps a brisk stroll would calm me down. Right now I was desperate enough for any way to pass some time before Mr. Boswell would be approachable. He was not exactly a morning person.

I wandered around aimlessly for heaven only knows how long, not thinking about anything important and not paying attention...

Until a painfully strong grip on my shoulder, accompanied by the unmistakable sensation of a revolver shoved forcefully into my ribs disrupted me from my dreamy state of mind. 

“Mr. Manders, I _so_ hoped to find you,” said an unpleasantly high-pitched voice, a voice I hoped I would never hear again but which regularly haunted me in my nightmares.

Silk.

Roger bloody Silk.

I am dead.

* * *

This was absolutely, utterly, completely, and without any doubt the worst position I have ever found myself in. And I was not referring to my hands, painfully bound together behind my back. 

Silk had practically kidnapped me from a street full of people. Well, not that I showed much resistance, as a gun buried in one’s ribs is a rather eloquent argument to be cooperative. So I let him lead me back to my room in the inn. 

Think, Bunny, think. Think! How did the rabbit outwit the wolf?

Keep him talking, I have to keep him talking, keep him occupied and distracted until I can think of something, some escape plan, some miracle to save my life. 

“Now, Mr. Manders, where is your friend?”

Arthur? Silk does not know? Oh good God, _thank God_ , he does _not_ know. He is as unaware of Arthur’s whereabouts as I am. That means Arthur is out of danger. He is safe and well.

“I – I have many friends,” I managed with only a slight shake to my voice. “Which one do you mean?”

He slammed the revolver to my temple with a feral growl. I had to blink a few times to clear my vision from the stars which suddenly started to dance in front of my eyes. 

“You know bloody well which one I mean! The famous cricketer A. J. Raffles. Or,” with his gun underneath my chin he forced me to look up at him, “shall I better say, your _partner in crime_? He hasn’t been home for quite some time.” 

Ah, I’m such an idiot, aren’t I? _Of course_ Silk would pay a visit to the Albany flat. And I sent telegrams there. 

I practically marched into that mad murderer’s clutches, demanding to be killed.

I did not know what to say so I only treated him with a disdainful look.

“Mr. Manders, don’t be childish.” 

Childish? I knew that my scorning looks aren’t exactly frightening, but... childish? “I can be as childish as I want!” I remarked hotly, barely resisting the temptation to stick out my tongue at him.

I really hate it when everyone treats me like a weak-minded fool.

“Oho?” Silk smirked sinisterly. “Then be a good boy and tell me,” he caressed my cheek with the gun barrel, “where can I find your friend?”

“A–As if.” Not good, my voice was shaking. 

The gun barrel slipped down my chin and pressed against my Adam's apple. “Don’t be stubborn.” The pressure increased, unpleasant, painful, suffocating, and I heard my own ragged breathing sharply contrasting with Silk’s eager short breaths, and the deafening roar in my ears from the mad rush of blood in my veins and the cocking of Silk’s revolver and ...

Gunshot.

_Oh my God it was a gunshot I’m dead I must be dead I ..._

“Mr. Manders?!”

Instinctively I turned my head towards that voice.

William Boswell was standing in the doorframe, gun still aimed at Silk who was now rolling about the floor, clutching his shot-through shoulder and cursing in a manner that would put every sailor in awe.

“Mr. Manders, are you all right?” Mr. Boswell walked in, miraculously producing handcuffs from his pocket.

“Ye–Yes.”

“Good. Wait a little, until I secure Mr. Silk here.”

I was able only to nod, my mind whirling at a dizzying tempo.

Mr. Boswell barked orders at the unfortunate staff members who had come running after hearing the gunshot – to alert the local constabulary, to bring him a medical kit, to fix a stiff drink for Mr. Manders, to lock Silk in the pantry meanwhile, to prepare ... Wait a moment!

He knew my name. He even knew Silk’s name. 

_Bloody heavens,_ he _knew!_

How could he possibly know?

“Now, now, Mr. Manders,” he smiled fondly at me as he untied my hands. “Stop looking at me like I’m the scariest thing under the sun and let me have a look at that gash on your temple.”

“But –”

He stopped me with a raised finger and a _don’t-talk-back-to-a-doctor_ stare. “Or Mr. Raffles will be very upset with you.”

“Arthur had me followed?”

_I am sooo going to kill him._

“... In a manner of speaking. We decided that it would be the safest course of action.”

“We?”

Mr. Boswell’s lips tugged in a suppressed smile as he patted a cotton swab reeking of disinfectant to my sore temple. “I’m afraid I had to conceal my true identity from you.”

“That’s not – ouch – surprising at all.”

“It’s only a gash.”

“It hurts as if my head has been split.”

“That’s the common drawback of head injuries. So, before our friends arrive with a more detailed report of this whole unfortunate incident, allow me to atone for such a horrendous breach of etiquette.” He grinned outright at me.

I could not help but grin back. “Go right ahead.”

“Doctor John Watson.” He extended his hand towards me, carefully eyeing me for my reaction.

To say that I was taken by surprise would be the understatement of the millennium. Truth be told, for a while I actually thought that I was going to faint. 

It could only mean that ... Raffles’ mysterious friend from Cambridge is ... _Oh my God, you have to be kidding me!_ The very same man whose name is whispered with fear and grudging admiration by the whole criminal underground?

Well ... One simply cannot be the partner in crime of Arthur J. Raffles without growing accustomed to expecting the unexpected.

I shook Doctor Watson’s hand, still a little awestruck. “I am _honoured_ to meet you.”


End file.
